


She Remembers; He's Not Allowed To

by yuffiehighwind



Category: Black Books
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-01
Updated: 2007-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuffiehighwind/pseuds/yuffiehighwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened at the New Years party Bernard can't remember?</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Remembers; He's Not Allowed To

**Author's Note:**

> I'm American, so apologies in advance. This fic uses a mashup of American and British spelling/dialects.
> 
> The events of that fateful New Year's Eve party have been told before in Black Books fanfiction, but here's my version anyway. (Based on dialogue in S1 Ep 2 "Manny's First Day.")

It was half-ten and already Fran was sick of every bloke in the place turning tail and fleeing whenever Bernard gave them a narrow look. Elbowing him in the ribs, she tried to get him to cross the invisible boundary in the center of the house. "And you're to remain  _on that side_ ," she stressed. But Bernard always wandered back over to complain. They needed to work out a signaling system, Fran realized after every outing with her oldest friend, that would enable him to help her escape a conversation, but also hold him at bay if she was getting lucky. The current system was hugely flawed, because he was never there to rescue her. Every dull twit in the place latched onto her left ear, and all she could do was smile and nod and pray to God he'd strike them dead. When Fran finally found a handsome man to flirt with, Bernard chose that exact moment to come over and loudly exclaim obscenities.

"Fucking wanker double dipped. Who's this arsehole?"

The man booked a quick retreat, and Fran was just about ready to murder Bernard.

"Why do you keep doing that? What in fuck's sake is wrong with you? Were you raised by wolves, or something?"

"What?" He swigged his beer and then made a face. "Where'd I get this piss? Wha..."

Fran took it from him and began to chug. Bernard tsked her like a teacher. "You're doing it all wrong. This is how you drink." He swiped a wine glass off a tabletop and smacked his lips noisily. "Ahh, red." He gestured to the rim. It had lipstick on it. "And already decorated for the new year."

Fran shut her eyes tight and looked like she was crying. Bernard awkwardly patted her on the arm.

"There, there. It's alright. There's plenty booze left."

Fran swatted him in the chest. "You've ruined the whole night, Bernard. Just ruined it."

He held up his hands in protest. "What did I do?"

She glared daggers. "You have scared off every potential pull at this disaster of a party." She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper. "They think you're my boyfriend."

Bernard returned her scowl with a blank look. "What?"

She pointed at the mingling groups. "There, and there. And over there at the 'successful' corner. I'm never going to get a husband."

Bernard rolled his eyes. "It's a bloody New Years party, Fran. I have the same problem, anyway."

His friend gave him a dubious look. Ever since the disaster that was his previous engagement to (the unfortunately "deceased") Emma, Bernard exuded some kind of anti-girlfriend forcefield. To pin the blame on her was rich.

"Every girl here is convinced, without a doubt, that you are my harpy girlfriend. It's terrible. I've never had a worse time in my life."

Fran shrugged, feeling no sympathy. "Whatever. I can't see it, so I don't see how they do."

The two stood together by the sofa, dressed in black, arms crossed, smoking cigarettes and radiating misanthropy. It was hard not to suspect.

 --

 Needless to say, by midnight, Fran and Bernard had implemented a strategic capture of any and all alcohol. Since it was in fact the friend of a friend's place, were they caught, any and all consequences meant little to them. The two were so used to burning bridges that it had become a habit by this point, and the potential alienation of another aquaintance was met with apathy by both.

Missing the countdown by nearly an hour, Fran and Bernard were greeted in their hiding place by some departing revelers wishing them Happy New Year. Fran and Bernard raised their glasses sloppily, murmuring, "Yaaaay."

"So what's your resolution?" Fran asked. "You gonna quit being a miserable bastard?"

"Not a chance," he replied. "I was thinking..."

The pause hung in the air for a while.

"Yes?"

"What?"

Fran sat up and shoved a finger in his face. He waved it away. "You were telling me your resolution for the new year."

"I was?"

"Yesh."

"I already know what yours will be."

Fran shook her drink from side to side in a "no no no" gesture. "No you don't. You couldn't. It's completely original."

"No woman's is original. You're going to lose weight."

"Nope. Wrong."

"You're going to stop drinking and smoking."

"Wrong again, buster."

"You're going to adopt a small pride of lions. Spit it out!"

"I am going to..."

"Yes?"

"I am..."

"You're not doing anything, are you?"

"I'm opening a shop. Right next to yours."

The silence spread after this for a while as well. A few more people bid farewell to them. They soon realized why. They were sitting on the floor, leaned against the bed in the coat-room.

"You can't be serious."

Fran gave a sly look, or what she at least assumed was one. "Ah, but I am. I'm opening up a shop next to yours. I already spoke to the landlord 'bout it. It's gonna be brilliant."

Bernard was appalled. Any more business on his block and he might have to actually sell books. And therein lay the solution.

"But what're you gonna sell?"

Fran opened her mouth to explain, but shut it again, at a loss. "Fuck you. It's going to be brilliant."

Bernard just laughed.

 --

 Ushered out of the party, the two stumbled out into the street to seek a taxi. Finding none, they walked to the nearest establishment, only to find it required a cover and they had no money. Trudging back to the party, the two hitched a lift with another guest who had been waiting for them for two hours. Luckily, he'd also been involved in something to do with mistletoe and a bottle of Absinthe, so it was just as well.

Fran insisted they bring her home first, and Bernard just followed her inside. There was nothing she could do to shake him, so what the hell, he'd sleep over.

 --

 A bottle of wine was just the ticket. They opened it and let it breathe. For a couple seconds.

"Pour!" Fran commanded, and Bernard obliged with a flourish. The last two decent glasses remained, and they might as well be risked for a special occasion such as the dawning of a new year. Downing half a glass sloppily, Bernard let out a sigh and watched as Fran giggled uncontrollably. This started him laughing, and the two fell apart into a fit. Catching their breath, he asked her what had been so funny. She had no idea.

\--

Bernard upended the bottle, sucking out the last drops. Fran drummed her fingers on the countertop. Music was what was missing, and in an uncharacteristic moment of playfulness, Bernard got up to dance, spinning Fran around the floor of her apartment, only to trip over the mess she hadn't bothered to clean. They collapsed onto the sofa and sprawled there, Fran leaning into him and smelling his coat. It was saturated with smoke. A woman highly opposed to nuzzling, did just that, and so he wrapped an arm around her and they relaxed.

"Bernard."

"Hrm?"

"Bernard."

"What?"

"Am I pretty?"

This was met with silence.

"I take that as a no."

"No!"

"Hrmph."

Bernard rubbed her arm and bumped his forehead to hers. "You're fit. Totally fit." But his heart didn't sound in it.

"Nevermind. Forget I asked."

He nuzzled her neck and Fran tried to move away, annoyed. What was he doing?

"Fran."

"What?"

Was that...? No, it couldn't be. Was he  _kissing her neck?_

Now she thought about it, the room seemed a bit spinny. His lips were on hers next and she backed away a bit. But he came at her again, his palm on the side of her face, mashing their lips together. It was gross. But she didn't pull away.

They rubbed their closed lips together, and she felt his tongue dart out to lick his chapped lips. She parted her lips to taste him, and he tasted of smoke and red wine, of winter and bitterness. He did the same and the next thing Fran knew she was snogging her best friend.

"You're so warm," he moaned, pulling her into his lap. Which was awkward, because she fell hip-first onto his leg and had to move to straddle him. But her shoes got in the way because the sofa back was there. She dug her knees into the cushions on either side of him, and he leaned back, lying down with her on top of him, his hands sliding up under the front of her shirt.

\--

There was some kind of transition.

There had to have been, because they were naked on a bed, somehow, and the next thing she knew he was inside of her, and it had been hazy at this point, but then everything went into a stark clarity in the mortifying moments that followed.

Fran was lying on her back, her legs spread, clutching his shoulders as he thrust. Her eyes were shut and it was nice, how he smelled, and felt, so very warm, their bodies close. Joined. Whole. Like they completed a puzzle together.

But when she opened her eyes, reality returned, and there was Bernard, with a dumpy grin that was absolutely terrifying. His hair she'd entwined her fingers in so lovingly mere moments before was bouncing everywhere and to try and forget that stupid dopey face of his, she watched it and thought of how to comb it into submission. And  _nothing_  was happening down south. Oh sure, she felt him well enough, but his jerky, robotic motions, mindless in their repetition, felt like aliens probing her. The weight of his body heavily pressed down upon her, her legs were cramped,  _and he wasn't even looking at her!_  Bernard's gaze, when his eyes were open, fell on a spot slightly to the left and above her face.

In morbid curiosity, Fran watched as her friend came, his eyes screwed shut and his whole body tensing, his face making an expression more of pain than ecstasy, and then, as though to make it even more embarrassing, he collapsed on top of her in a sweaty heap, mumbling sweet nothings like, "I could use a drink."

\--

The next day, Bernard woke and found his best friend naked and snoring beside him. The shock ebbed a bit before returning in full force, and he sat there, gaping, before remembering what would help, which was a glass of wine. But Fran began to stir, and remembering some things about women, he remained in bed beside her. He was terrified, unsure whether or not to feign sleep or just admit the jig was up. Greeting her full in the face wasn't the best choice.

"Ahh!" Fran gave a strangled yelp and Bernard smartly pulled back to a more reasonable distance.

"Mornin'," he grumbled. Fran took the pillow and held it over her head. Bernard frowned.

"Oh. my. God," she said, and began repeating it like a mantra. Bernard pulled the pillow off her face and loudly spoke her name into her right ear. She jumped. "I thought I was dreaming. I swear to God I thought it was a dream, and I didn't expect...I just didn't expect...I'm still dreaming right?"

Bernard gruffly replied, "Nope. You're awake." He gestured to their surroundings and asked, "What the fuck is going on?"

Fran screwed her eyes shut tight but Bernard wouldn't let her cover them. He took her hands in his, but she reacted as though bugs had crawled over her skin. "We were drunk," she said, pulling away from him. She sat up. "Very, very drunk."

"I can see that," Bernard said, gesturing to her topless-ness. Yelping, Fran pulled the sheets up to cover herself. She risked a glance at Bernard, who took a length of sheet and covered himself as well.

"You are not to remember, okay? I forbid it."

Bernard just gave her a dour look, but she wouldn't return the gaze. "What are you talking about, woman?"

Fran risked a sideways glance at her friend. A cold, stern one. "You're not allowed to remember this night. This night is to be never spoken of again. And certainly not to be remembered."

Bernard was a bit fuzzy on the concept, but luckily, he was a bit fuzzy on the details of the previous night as well. "And yourself?"

Fran sighed. "I think it's seared in my memory, to be truthful."

Bernard almost beamed with pride, until he saw her disgusted look. Insulted, he got out of bed and went in search of his clothes. Fran pulled more sheet around herself.

"Bernard, _please_ don't take it the wrong way. You're a dear friend, but this is just far too disturbing for words."

He flinched slightly, and when he didn't reply but was safely clad, Fran snapped her fingers to try and get him to look at her.

"It's just, we've gotten piss-drunk before and nothing like this has ever happened."

Bernard shrugged. "True," he curtly admitted. "Okay, it's forgotten."

Fran smiled. "Really?"

Bernard nodded. "Yup. Gone. Completely. Like I'm going to be."

Her smile dipped back into a frown. She watched him struggle with his shirt, which was being difficult, as he hastily dressed. Fran realized that somehow she'd pissed him off. He seemed tensed to leave her flat and never return. This wouldn't do. Bernard was her best friend, and a part of her could never bear to lose him.

She sat up, put as much sunshine in her voice as she could muster and said, "Ya know what, let's just treat this like any other morning, Bernard. Let's get something dry to eat and then try not to throw it up. What do you say?"

Bernard's shoulders relaxed. _That_ was something he could do. Trying to hide his relief, Bernard agreed, and left the room to let her change.

At breakfast, the pair donned matching sunglasses. Memories fading, they slouched over two coffees, as though nothing had happened. Held their heads and groaned about stupid parties, hangovers, and the necessary occurrence of sunlight in winter...


End file.
